


she's thunderstorms

by caligulasavior9



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Biting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Handcuffs, Hate Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caligulasavior9/pseuds/caligulasavior9
Summary: In more ways than one, John was obsessed with her.Perhaps it was inevitable, knowing what they were. Perhaps it was him and the saying is true that “Once an addict, always an addict” and he found himself falling back into the same dark pit of addiction once again.Because, what is obsession if not a drug without substance?
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	she's thunderstorms

**Author's Note:**

> soooo, this fic has been a long time coming and boy, if this isn't a monster of a fic to write. let me know your thoughts about this on the comment sections, alright?
> 
> title shamelessly borrowed from she's thunderstorms by arctic monkeys

* * *

_The final move was made, the knight hung his head  
And said "You've won, I've nothing left to play" _

_The Seventh Seal - Scott Walker_

* * *

  
Hippocrates, the father of Western medicine, once stated: “It is far more important to know what person the disease has than what disease the person has.”

Once upon a time in a small town in Montana, a man named John Seed ripped a woman's shirt open and viciously carved the word _WRATH_ across her chest.

He was wrong.

* * *

  
“Stop! Stop! I'll do anything you want! Just please, don't hurt me!”

A man, approximately ten years older than him was sobbing pathetically on his knees, hands shaking and clasped tightly together. Blood cascaded freely down his chin where John had pried his mouth open and managed to pull several of his teeth out. Ultraviolence; it was one of the few languages John proficient at, and damn if he wasn’t rhetoric. It was a blessing, it was a curse. 

His soul was pitifully cursed.

John passed the pliers to one of his people and knelt in front of his victim, a firm hand on his shoulder, reassuring, surprisingly magnanimous.

“Then atone, my friend,” he said. “Atone in the name of God, atone before death sweeps you up in his embrace and take you from this earth, atone,” John's grip on the man's shoulder tightened, an unsettling grin crossed his face. “Atone for your future. Sloth... my, I've known sloth my whole life. I know it like the back of my hand. But I see things much clearer now, you know? Sloth will only drag you down from what God has planned for you. When will you get up from your sleep? How long will you lie there? You will achieve nothing from it. And the next thing you know opportunities pass you by like a blink of an eye, no, no, no.”

John, much to the man's fear, then cupped his bruised face in his bloody palm. He looked almost parental, like a doting father encouraging his child into doing good deeds.

“It shouldn't work that way. You must change, you _must_ atone before poverty comes to you like an armed man and leave you in despair.” He rose to his feet, dust beneath his feet, the moon hung light-years away above his head and smiled. 

“Now, I ask you this once more; will you atone for all the sins you've committed your whole life and become a better man?” John held his arms wide and open. “All it takes is a single word. It's that easy.”

“Yes,” the man eventually relented in a broken whisper. “Yes, I will atone. Just don't hurt me anymore, please.”

John smiled wider. “Done deal.”

It only took a nod from the Baptist for the man to be pushed down to the ground. Two of John's people holding him down as he screeched and thrashed around like a dying animal. 

John, on the other hand, who was feeling quite upbeat all of the sudden from how the progress went, slipped on a pair of latex gloves and grabbed the tattoo gun from the makeshift table. Humming softly to an eighty-year-old song as he inspected the needles, making sure they weren't bent or dull before inserting them into the tube.

“What’re you doing?” he slurred nearly unintelligible and blanched when John approached and crouched before him, fear sounded thick in his voice. “No, please! I thought you said you won't hurt me!”

"I won't hurt you. But the world needs to know of the sin you once committed, so it may be absolved. If we hide ourselves, we hide our sins and we don’t want that, don’t we?” asked John. 

"No! Please, no! Stop!"

“For fuck's sake, shut up! It's only going to hurt if you won't stop moving.” John barked before his gaze snapped down to his torso and brought the hand with the tattoo gun to the man’s chest. 

“What? You never had ink done once in your life before?” John asked casually as if they were neighbors having a chat over the barbecue grill or something. When the man supplied nothing to answer it, John chuckled amusedly. “You never? Well, I'll be damned. Consider this as a rite of passage then.” And drew his face closer, all teeth and deep-sea eyes that were far too bright from moonlight. “Don’t worry, though, I can assure you that I’m a professional.” 

John switched the machine on, the gun vibrated over the top of his hand. The sound of nature became the constant soundtracks in his ears accompanied by the relentless cries of a man half-tattooed, half-scared to death. 

The letter ‘O’ had just been engraved forever across his skin.

John’s radio rung. 

“Goddamnit!” The youngest Seed brother got to his feet, hot-headed. The tattoo gun left abandoned moving on the dirt. His concentration dashed into millions or pieces and John detested it. Especially when he was in the middle of work. Whatever this was, it better be important.

“Speak,” he spoke over the comm, each syllable came out rough.

 _“John.”_ It was Jacob. _“Joseph needs you in the church_ **_now._ ** _He says it's time.”_

In an instant, the fury on his face vanished. Something changed from behind his eyes, a flash akin to solemn and uneasiness took over. The same way when a soldier was about to be sent into battle, packed only with limited provisions and ammo and there was no way to determine his odds. 

This was it. The moment they’ve all been waiting for. The final puzzle piece that would set their little apocalyptic campaign in motion. And Joseph had warned them about this for months now. How the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would come and try to take him for good. 

“God will never let them take me, John,” the Father had said over and over again. It was his prophecy, it was a promise, it was a mantra that was now imprinted in John's brain forever. And John believed in him. Only because he had no one else to believe in for years.

“I'll be there in five.”

John didn't even spare the man beneath him a glance, even as he was being dragged away into the bunker, bruised and battered, pants and hair caked with dirt. The tattoo left untouched, unfinished. A waste of good work, but he would deal with him later. It could wait. 

Everything in this world must wait when Joseph said so.

* * *

  
Her name is Inés Herrera, a junior Deputy of Hope County Sheriff’s Department or a sprite-eyed, dark-haired, stony-faced woman with a ridiculously defined jawline and dimples on her cheeks when stripped of her official titles. At least according to him.

And it was John’s eyes she set on the moment she entered the church, hot on her superiors’ tails, assertive and depthless despite that it was Joseph, the all-powerful leader of this holy Project that was standing in her line of vision.

While he, on hers.

John could have— _should have_ set his eyes on the Marshal. He should have stared him down, intimidated him, perhaps, and made him and his band of outsiders leave him and his family alone. Because if these fools thought he'd let another strangers seize the feeling he'd been robbed off for years the second time, they wouldn't know what was coming at them. Especially when life had so much more meaning now that his siblings were near. 

But it was her eyes; a perpetual mystery, that kept pulling his attention like magnets and John hated it. Hated the distraction, hated how brown they were and how he couldn't seem to figure them out. 

And then she had to go and slap the handcuffs on his brother's wrists and take him away.

The Deputy was a silent threat, a nuisance to his normal routine, the enemy of his belief, he realized these just as much that John wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his days hating her, have her confess her deepest sins and carve them all over her skin like a canvas and see her succumbed to _his_ will.

But that is not what happened in this story.

* * *

  
In this story, she comes to him. 

He's just finished reading the reports regarding the Resistance's assaults on the long table when he catches her through his peripheral vision; tip-toeing, her form illuminated by the rippling light from the moon that casts her shadow on the hardwood floor. Like a wraith coming to haunt you in the middle of the night and she is coming for him. Subtlety is undeniably not her thing, he thought.

But then John realizes maybe it isn't her intention to be subtle.

“I know you're here, Deputy," John says aloud, his voice echoes through crevices of his own home. He doesn't even bother to turn around to confirm that she is indeed _here_. "And don’t bother running away, I could have this whole place crawling with my men in just a moment’s notice.” 

She doesn't need to answer him. He knows things about her even when she says nothing at all. Silence envelopes the ranch save for John's growing heart rate, louder than bombs in his ears and the sound of her shoes scraping onto the floor. 

John turns to face her then, his movement ginger and watchful, only to find her standing an arm's length away, basked in the pale moonlight and the dim lights of the ranch; swathed in a simple, ankle-length white nightgown, an oversized denim jacket and a pair of sneakers, ratty and worn, like straight out of a Ramones album cover. 

Her eyes absent and looking deeply troubled, devoid of her usual cockiness. But John knows better. With her, he always takes everything with a grain of salt.

“And would you do it?” she questions boldly, her voice both too high and too low.

"You're not supposed to be here, Dep," he hisses after a pause, dodging the question they both know the answer to. His hand stealthily reaching for his pocket-knife from his back. 

"Neither should you," she counters instead. Her gaze does not waver slightly. If she tries to mask her fear behind her nonchalance, she certainly nails it.

John laughs dryly, mocking and raises the pocket-knife at her, the Deputy abruptly flinches. The end of the knife nearly meeting the fabric of her jacket, hovering right where “ _WRATH_ ” takes shelter underneath. 

"That's a bit cheap coming from the person who barges into someone else's ho--"

"I mean here," the Deputy cages her head in her own hands, frustration bleeds into her voice. “You are not supposed to be inside my head. Why are you there?”

He does not reply to her. Instead, he studies her. Like an engaging, weirdly confusing specimen she is. Trying to work out her angle.

John inches closer to her, then. He doesn't drop the knife, she doesn't ask him to. Merely letting the tip presses through the fabric of her jacket, effectively trapping her against the wall. The Deputy gasps in surprise. 

"Joseph was wrong, you see? You _are_ beyond salvation. After everything I've done… The Cleansing, the Confession, the Atonement. Your sin still shows, and you wear it around like some kind of a gilded badge or something," John scolds instead. If anything, to distract himself. 

Because she can never know the truth. She must not. That she's always been in there too, tucked deep within the recesses of his mind, swirling, cavorting, circumnavigating. Steering him slowly insane.

 _Her_. That raven head, a walking gun, tiger eyelashes woman with a penchant for causing chaos on her wake. 

John puts pressure on the knife and she gasps again, high and fleeting. 

“I might as well save us a lot of trouble and just kill you, huh?” he murmurs lowly into the space between them, her face dangerously close to him. His breath coming out hot from his nostrils. “God knows you bring more trouble around than good, anyway.”

* * *

  
She never responded to his radio calls. 

John had tried every method he could think of from spitting empty threats to full-blown threats; broadcasting his preaches to play loud gospels in the middle of the night. He’d even called out her friends and comrades weak, anything just to provoke some response out of her but she kept schtum.

And John was about reaching the terminal limits of his patience.

“You know, Deputy,” he spoke, the communicator in his hand, a half-burnt cigarette on the other. “I was just reading an interesting fact about the ocean earlier today and I learned a great deal about it. Did you know that the average depth of the ocean is about 12,100 feet?” Still no response, but he went on. Like always.

"The deepest part of the ocean is called the Challenger Deep. It’s located beneath the western Pacific Ocean at the end of the southern end of the Mariana Trench and runs 36,200 feet deep. Now, you may wonder what does it have to do with anything? More specifically, what does it have to do with you? Well, I'll tell you this, Deputy: it _does_ have everything to do with you. Yes, you. And you wanna know why?" John asked his silent audience, trying to cap his anger. 

"Because unlike you, it's more possible to measure the depth of the ocean than your heart. For you have **_no_ ** heart, Deputy. You only seek destruction and chaos, and war without giving a single thought about the casualties you leave behind. _Wrath_ will be the death of you if you won't accept the Word of the Father into your heart." He paused, then. His gaze tracing absently up the ceiling where the golden glow of the afternoon illuminated his office to life, his mind reluctantly went to her. He took a last, long drag of his cigarette. 

"It's not too late to atone, Deputy. It is never too late to say _yes_. Say yes, and let me save your soul and absolve you from your sins. Say yes, and you'll never go astray for the rest of your life ever again. We will guide you. Making sure that you'll never wander astray once again."

It wasn't long before his radio crackled to life, surprising him. Then a voice came from the end of the line.

 _"Maybe you'll just have to keep on swimming, Seed._ " 

She was mocking him, she was challenging him yet John found himself grinning at the radio, all teeth and highly intrigued. 

"Maybe I will do that," John replied, unknowingly more to himself or her.

* * *

  
"Do it, then.”

It’s a dare, a permission to do the unthinkable. John blinks, trying to digest her request.

The Deputy looks at him with fire in her eyes. A different kind of fire that doesn’t sit well in the pit of his stomach. Gone now is the fear, the trepidation she ever has for him. She wants this, he knows and John may as well give it to her. God as their witness.

So, John slowly raises the knife under her chin. Marveling the way the expanse of her slender neck arches and lays bare for him to assess, her chest heaves, her lips biting down a gasp that’s nearly to escape. He watches, enraptured, curious, as she shuts her eyes, throws her head further back when John begins to drag the blade down her skin, putting light pressure enough to pierce her skin but not enough to draw blood. She shivers like a wildflower. A quiet moan spills from her parted lips and he _despises_ it, the electricity, the goosebumps that threaten to rise on his skin from her voice alone. 

John involuntarily steps closer. He skims the blade further down, scraping just over the jut of her collarbone. The Deputy’s breath hitches, strangled, hip pushed forward to make contact with his and he knows that she can feel him now, the evidence of his physical desire, growing hard against her and John doesn’t even have the decency to hide it anymore. 

When the blade once again reaches her heart, they both stilled, gaze holding onto each other, the air buzzing with promise. She's waiting, anticipating, her pupils have completely taken over her eyes while John, considering, reflecting, giving her a long, slow, once-over. 

It’s very easy, he thought, so, _so easy_ to end this wicked game between them. All it takes is the final push.

And he does it.

Without a word, John plunges the knife on the wooden wall next to her head. She barely has the time to register what is going on before his free hand comes up and grips the back of her neck and kisses her quite, categorically insane.

* * *

  
"I have heard a lot of things about you, Deputy." 

Those were the words John uttered to her when they met properly for the first time. It was after the arrest, after the baptism in which where John had nearly drowned the poor life out of her before Joseph came and intervened in the whole process. 

She was sitting on a chair, her hair a chaotic mess, hands tied behind her back. Her sweat-soaked shirt highlighting her abdominal muscles and the swell of her breasts. John instantly looked away as if she was an eclipse and he forgot to put his shades on.

"And I, you," the Deputy replied with a flat smile. "And don't worry, most of them are wicked."

John threw his head back and laughed.

* * *

  
They kiss like how they pursue each other's tails; struggling for the upper hand, for dominance. He kisses her hard and hot-blooded, teeth biting into her lower lip until she yelps and tastes crimson in his tongue, while she, scrapes her nails up over his stomach, pushes her tongue against his that draws a low, guttural groan from the Baptist. He bunches up her dress, pulling until the hem hangs above her knees while his fingers dig harshly onto her waist that will surely leave indents on her skin in the morning.

With her, it’s impossible to encapsulate all his feelings into a single word because in truth, there is none for it. John wants to hurt her, wants to kiss her until she forgets her name, he wants to kill her for all the chaos she’s caused, he wants to fuck her brains out until she can't walk for days. He wants everything and God help him, he is willing to do them all. Despite what Joseph had taught him about these deadly sins.

Christ, what would Joseph say about this? The rational part of his head wonders. Not only fraternising with the enemy will surely render him consequences, but committing these ancient sins he has already atoned? Oh, he is definitely going to hell.

But Inés’ lips taste like new sin, and her feminine touches feel like fire on his skin and John drinks every inch of her like a mad alcoholic, making his head spin than an actual drink would do and suddenly, he doesn't seem to have the capacity to care. 

The hands on his chest then slowly make their way up to his face. Cradling his bearded cheeks as she withdraws herself from him to catch a breath.

“John.” It is the first time she ever utters his name. All this time, they have been careful enough not to say each other’s names. Both hated the sentiment and the familiarity, but now…

Now, John can’t decide exactly what to feel. But he finds himself kissing her again, deeper this time, and trails his tinged lips down her jaw, her neck. Nipping on her delicious skin just so he can hear his name rolling off of her tongue again and again.

He is not disappointed.

* * *

  
The Deputy was a creature of habit, which made finding her much easier than reaching her via the radio.

Just as expected, he found her that evening. Sitting on the far end stool of this pisshole of a watering hole with a beer in hand and a book in the other. The tavern was decadently rowdy tonight, practically crawling with her comrades as they drowned themselves in the bottom of the bottle, waves of laughter and litany of curses echoed across the air, cards either being shuffled or thrown. It seemed tonight was one of those nights where folks scrambled into establishments such as these to celebrate their darkest side. 

And here was John, the royal fool, crossing his way toward her seat. Knowing full well how she and nearly everyone here would have his head in a moment’s notice if he’s caught. 

She didn’t even look up when he sat down on the empty stool next to her, didn’t even flinch. Her eyes kept glued to the myriad of words on her book. He’d like to think the disguise he was pulling was working.

Until:

“Awful lot of risks you’re taking for coming here,” she finally uttered and raised her beer to her mouth. John’s gaze involuntarily traveled to the way her lips hovered on the edge of the bottle.

The Baptist shifted his attention to the bar, gazing at the row of colorful bottles on the shelf. “Let’s just say risk-averse has never been my middle name."

“Obviously. And how very foolish of you," she scoffed and threw back the rest of her beer in one gulp, her throat working as she swallowed. The Deputy waved and held two fingers up at the bartender as he passed them by. A few seconds later, he came back with two bottles of ice-cold beer on the counter.

She grabbed one bottle and pushed the other toward John's direction. Without hesitation, John snatched the beer from the counter and took a swig in silence. No questions asked, no scepticism over his supposedly ulterior motive for coming to meet her. It almost seemed as if they weren't what they were to each other and this was just another reliable routine between them. As much as an oddity it sounded.

“Neruda," John hummed as he finally took a glance at the intricate book cover. "Who would have thought the Deputy is quite the connoisseur of fine arts, huh?”

She shrugged absentmindedly, licked her thumb and casually flipped another page. "There's more to me than meets the eye, you know?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

The Deputy gave a sidelong glance and he thought he saw the corner of her lips quirked. John took another swig of his drink. Never breaking eye contact, until he lowered the bottle from his face, his lips wet from the beer, that her attention migrated to his lips. John involuntarily licked his lips. Her eyes freely followed.

Then as if reality hit her like a piledriver, she looked away.

“Neruda is a personal hero. And I used to want to be a poet when I was a kid,” she suddenly said, her focus glued back to her book.

He scoffed. “That's ridiculous. Why would anyone want to be a poet? They are a bunch of liars.”

“And so are lawyers.”

John didn’t even try to rectify that. 

What he did, however, was extended his hand and pressed her book down flat against the counter. Her hands were still on either side of the book. John felt her right thumb grazing slightly on his finger, her skin warm and electric against his. Neither of them moved away.

It took a good twenty seconds for the Deputy to project some kind of a reaction from this. When she did, she finally withdrew her hands from the book and turned on her seat so that she could fully face him. John's eyes flickered to hers, under the fluorescent lights, her amber eyes almost looked like sunlight shining through whiskey and he noted the challenge behind them. 

“I could tell them that you are here." It was a promise, it was a threat. It was obvious she wasn't going to let him walk out of here in one piece. 

John's mouth twisted, his smile like a loaded gun. He took his shades off. "Would you?"

"Would I?" The Deputy chuckled condescendingly, loudly, though the sound drowned beneath the music and festivities around them. She closed the book. "I could have them all point their weapons at you in just a blink of an eye. They'll have your head even before you can pray for your wicked soul and believe me, I would." 

His smirk stretched wider, wrier. As expected. Her response would be nothing short but a shot of fire.

"Of course you would." Then John leveled her stare, considering his next moves, measuring his words. If there was anything certain tonight, was that clinging to his self-preservation wouldn’t be easy. Knowing what they were and the current circumstance that he brought himself into. One wrong move and he might as well put a gun to his temple and be done with it rather than being eaten alive by the lions around him.

In other words, he should have thought things through. In other words, he shouldn’t have also leaned in and challengingly asked: 

"But then again, you could have said anything the moment I came here, could you?" 

She couldn't even hazard a reply. The Deputy only stared at him, her face went inscrutably still. Like a deer in the headlights. 

Then her eyes narrowed in pure-blooded rage. Once upon a time, when John was young he watched a lightning strike on a tree near his childhood home. The thunder was here now. In the form of a woman, and just as scary and dangerous.

Mirroring him, the Deputy also leaned in toward him that their faces were only inches away. Cranking her death glare up to eleven. 

"Why the fuck did you come here, _cabrón_?" She questioned scorchingly, gritting her teeth. 

The word _you_ was at the forefront of John's mind, but refrained from voicing it out loud. Not when he was questioning his own intention.

So, John didn't say anything, his mouth shaping unspoken words. He stared at her mouth for the space of several hard breaths, given their proximity, before shifting his gaze back to her eyes.

And the implication must have reached through her because the Deputy's scowl disappeared, replaced by this confusion as she scanned his face for something, _anything_ that indicated this was just all in her head. 

She could have moved away but she didn’t, she could have looked the other way but it was his deep ocean eyes her gaze set on, intense and inscrutable that John briefly wondered if she would actually pull out her gun and shot him right then and there. 

But then something dark passed over her face. The tension immediately shifted, still dangerous but not in the cut-throat, drown-you-to-death kind that he knew so well. This was beyond their usual dance and John realized at that moment how the change was not exactly an unwelcoming one. Much to his horror. 

They stayed like that for a few moments. None made a single move to seal whatever was going on between them nor break the spell they were in. He watched as her breathing grew heavier by the second; while he, felt his jaw clench. His pulse racing like a chariot race. 

It could have been so easy; to give in and sate his curiosity. Even from the get-go, he knew that the Deputy would be the sin he'd ruefully regret that he didn't commit. But this time, John backed away. As if he'd just realized that he was holding a hot pot with his bare hands and now his skin was burning. 

When he rose from the stool and made his way out of the joint, he didn't bother to look back at her. Despite her eyes like magnets on his back. 

That same night when Jupiter was orbiting overhead, where John and his other siblings were summoned by Joseph for an impromptu meeting, planning out for their next move on the chessboard, it was what could have been the taste of her lips that seized the remaining space of his mind. Her, and the heavy guilt within him that was engulfed by entirely something else.

* * *

  
There's an ecstasy in this vile act they were doing. All they ever do is hurt each other, physically and mentally; together, they are like an Armageddon waiting to happen. So it's only apt that they take things to a higher tier and fuck each other just to screw things up further. 

Her jacket comes off first, sliding down the floor with a heavy thud, while her hands find the waistband of his pants and begin to work impatiently on the belt. John continues placing kisses further down her neck, teeth pinching along the ridge of her collarbone. Whatever skin he exposes, his mouth makes contact. Savoring the way her whole body shivers at his touch while his hand kneading her breast that her nipple hardens under his touch. 

John tugs the straps of her dress down with his teeth, his beard chafing her chest before he bends down to capture the erected pink flesh into his mouth. 

The Deputy arches before him, mewling like a kitten. John licks, sucks, and bites her nipple, which the latter earns him a surprised gasp from her. His other hand goes to the other nipple, his calloused fingertips plucking and pinching the flesh that her questing hands tremble. Although, she somehow manages to get the job done because the next thing John knows, Inés has her hand up running the length of his erection and he isn’t fast enough to stop the moan that comes from his mouth.

“Oh fuck, Inés,” he groans as he closes his eyes and buries his head on the crook of her neck. Her electric touch makes his head spins like an overspeeding carousel, his world narrows down to his crotch and the way her hand skillfully strokes his member; the wet, obscene sound of her hand as she pulls at his cock only flares the desire within him brighter and stronger, crazier and hotter.

John swats her hand away and without any gentleness or whatsoever, spins her around, pinning her front against the wall as he pulls the rest of her dress past her hips with violent jerks. He holds her there, despite Inés trying to wriggle her body around. His lips constantly devouring her skin, biting her shoulder that she cries his name again. One hand slides between her body and the wall to travel straight down between her thighs, past the waistband of her underwear where his dexterous digits rub a leisurely circle against her clit.

Then John shoves two fingers inside her wet heat and Inés' wanton moan grows crescendo. She bucks up with her hips. John inhales hard against her skin.

"Do you want to come, Inés? Do you want me to keep going until I send you to overdrive?" John growls in her ear, nibbling her earlobe as he set a merciless rhythm on her cunt. Her hips begin to rock hurriedly, desperate for a release. Her head tips back up against his shoulder as she let out a strangled moan as an answer. John smirks rather smugly at that.

"Say it," he says again. "Say it, or we're done here." To prove his point, John slows his fingers, torturous enough that she groans in frustration. Somehow, he can practically hear her glare from here.

" **Yes!** John, please. Yes, yes, yes, yes," she is all but begging for that sweet release John withholds from her. Her voice cracking.

A shit-eating grin is plastered on his face, revelling the way of having absolute control over her for once. He's wanted to see her submitting herself to him for a long time-- although, for a much different scenario, once upon a time. So, to hear the word John's tried to have her say the moment he wheeled her inside his bunker, wrists cuffed behind her back and blood dripping from her temple, feels triumphant.

As a reward for her obedience, John crooks his fingers within her tight sheath, massaging the spot that makes her legs quiver and repeats the motion. His other hand snaking its way to pinch her nipple until her body convulses and a hoarse scream claws its way from her throat, leaving her limp in his arms.

It's not long before Inés uses whatever strength she has and whirl herself around to face him. She pushes him back several paces toward the staircase; her breath still ragged from post-orgasm, her gait unsteady but when his eyes find hers, the desire and determination behind them simply unmistakable.

He feels her hands reaching for his shoulders and with surprising finesse and strength, pushes him down to the floor. Completely outmuscles him. Inés barely gives him time to righten his position when she straddles him, tears open his shirt, grabs a fistful of his brown locks and pulls him for a feverish kiss.

* * *

  
(Regardless of what will happen at one point in this story, note that the next time they see each other, even with all the hatred they harbor for one another, even as he pins her down on the floor with a tattoo gun in his hand, it will be her lips that he'd be thinking of. Knowing how they felt like between his teeth, while she, remembering the way his body reacted to her touches and thinking yes, some parts of her brain must have fucked up worse than she thought.

You have been warned.)

* * *

  
He is already half-naked by the time he feels Inés' hands on his chest and pushes him onto his back. Their lips never part. John, in turn, drags her underwear down her legs and carelessly throw it across the room.

She grins and directs her kisses up to his ear, murmuring something in her native tongue that is entirely lost on him. Her warm sighs like a caress of the summer wind, her tongue feels warmer that he can't simply _think_. She brings both of his arms above his head with one hand then he hears it, that distinctive clicking sound. John looks up to find his wrists are handcuffed to the stair railings.

John shoots her an alarmed look, tries to wriggle his hands from its vice grip but Inés rolls her hips, her sex brushing on his aching member just right and whatever doubt he simply has disappeared out of the window. They both whimper shamelessly. Impatience edging him closer and closer to insanity, John thinks if he were to die now before he gets on to the main show, he'd personally confront God for it.

As if she can't withhold her urgency, Inés finally, fucking _finally_ , takes his length and positions the head beneath her opening. He can't help but glance down, watching with bated breath as she lowers down and engulfs him. She gasps at their joining, her lips drop into a perfect circle. John's hands ball into fists. 

"Goddamn it, Inés." He throws his back and his thoughts cripple. She feels so good inside him and it's making his head churn. John thrusts upwards just in time as she begins to roll her hips against his, her hands splaying on his chest. 

His hooded eyes land on her breasts, bouncing every time she slams her hips into his. He fantasizes running his hands on them had his wrists are free; to the delicious curve of her hips or her ass. He imagines giving a good smack on the cheeks until they're tinged with hand-shaped bruises across them.

But for tonight and tonight _only_ , he allows her to take the wheel. 

"Oh, yes, John!" She arches her head above him, panting and breathless. Even if he still despises her, John has to admit that the Deputy is indeed a sight to behold. This pornographic sight of her that John doubts he could ever erase it from his mind; naked, olive skin slick with sweat, dark hair tousled and lips tinged and bruised from their kiss. "John! Fuck, _oh_! I'm close."

"That's it, Inés," John encourages darkly. Groaning as he feels her walls tightening around him. "Come for me." 

And he picks up the pace with an aggressive abandon that Inés' face contorts in pleasure. Her moans grow louder, deeper. Her own fingers travel down to her lower abdomen and fuck herself on his cock.

When her second orgasm crashes into her, John is not far behind. Initially, he thought if she's going to leave him high and dry, but once again, she surprises him when she but all disconnects herself from him and lowers her face to his groin, his cock jutting and twitching against his stomach, begging for a release. The Deputy's lips slide over the tip of his cock. 

"Fucking hell," John hisses in pleasure. God, the thing she does with her lips and tongue, ripping him apart and puts him back together before he comes hard inside her mouth.

* * *

  
In more ways than one, John was obsessed with her.

Perhaps it was inevitable, knowing what they were. Perhaps it was him and the saying is true that “Once an addict, always an addict” and he found himself falling back into the same dark pit of addiction once again.

Because, what is obsession if not a drug without substance?

* * *

  
This whole time they were running full-speed into a head-on collision, finally they both lost their grip on the steering wheel and collided brilliantly like gaseous nebulae. 

Though that doesn't mean they start to grow soft on each other, per se. The sex is not a declaration of truce, anyway. No matter what happens, their respective mission always comes first; he will still do anything in his power so that she reaches Atonement, while she may as well put a bullet between his skull in the next 48 hours. 

But for this moment, and this moment only, they let themselves succumb to the phantasm; that he is only a man and she a woman, nothing more, panting and sprawling in a tangled heap on the floor. Her ragged breath warm against his skin, one fingers absentmindedly tracing on the word _GREED_ that's carved on his ribcage and he closes his eyes, letting the cool night air dries the sweat on his skin.

Until she makes a move away from him and the moment's broken.

John opens his eyes and shamelessly leers at her naked form as Inés crawls for her clothes. Inés sits on the floor, slips her dress over her body and puts her underwear on. John begins to move to retrieve his clothes as well. Then he remembers the handcuffs.

"I'd appreciate it if you can uncuff me now, Dep." John shakes his cuffed wrists as if to get her attention. His hands feel positively numb right now.

The Deputy has just worn her jacket when she turns to look at him over her shoulder, her gaze flat and indifferent.

Then she crawls her way back to him, her movements steady and graceful like a cat, and swings a leg over his torso. Inés places the back of her hand on his cheek, her eyes drawing him like they always do and for a moment, he wonders if she's going to kiss him.

Then a mischievous grin makes it way across her face and John's blood runs cold at the realization. 

His nostrils flare. "You _fucking--"_

Herrera rolls her eyes. " _Sí, sí_ , I am."

"--piece of shit!" Snarling like a wild animal, John lunges forward, but the cuffs hold him back. He roughly shakes his hands, so hard the wood begins to rattle above him. "Give me the key!"

"Well, the thing is I don't have it with me," Inés whispers, closes the distance between them and licks the seam of his lips. "No hard feelings, _cariño. I_ am only leveling the playing field here." 

And with that, she nonchalantly rises to her feet, fumbles with her hair and dusts off her clothes. John's frustration grows tenfold. He can barely imagine how this will look like to Joseph if he or anyone in particular find him at this state. 

"You listen to me, Herrera! You better release me right now or I swear to God…” Both of his fists and jaw clench and unclench, thrashing like a mad man. “I _swear_ that you will pay."

“Well, I live for the challenge, so throw it at me.” 

" _Inés_ ," John grumbles lowly as she begins to make her way toward the door, a murderous gleam settles on his eyes. "If you walk out of that door right now without letting me go, know this that I will make sure that you spend the rest of your living days _suffer_ for this. And once I am done with you, I'll bury you along with all your friends in my backyard." It is his final warning. One that he hopes would deter her intention.

She stops her tracks before the door, hand hovering on the doorknob. 

"You’re wrong, by the way," she says, her back still facing him. Ignoring his threat completely. "It’s never Wrath, John. My sin is **Pride**. Always have and always will. Now, let’s see how you deal with your own pride when you’re all naked and chained to the stairs like this." Her voice is even, but it teeters precariously. When she looks at him over her shoulder, her eyes are the color of a stake and just as sharp.

"I'll see you back in the game, John."

Just like that, she disappears into the night, effectively putting the final nail in the coffin.

And just like that, the Herald of Eden's Gate finds himself at his wit's end.

* * *

_  
"I may be able to comprehend the secrets of the universe, but I'll never understand you. Never."_

Within the cold and stark walls of his bunker, John smirked to himself. Staring candidly at the ceiling, wondering when in the hell did he let his guard down that the running riot herself managed to get through his mind and drove him crazy like this.

"Maybe you'll just have to keep swimming, then," he echoed her words from before. 

It was the first time he ever heard her laugh.

* * *

  
Once upon a time in a small town in Montana, a woman named Deputy Inés Herrera rips a man's shirt open, the same man who wronged her in the first place and seizes back her pride she's been deprived of.

And this is how she serves her revenge.  
  


_**end.** _


End file.
